Daring
by n00btmntfan
Summary: Four eight-year-old sons are a handful on the best of days, but when the turtles start daring each other to do progressively sillier things, Splinter finds himself at the end of his wits. This is just a fluff piece that takes a look into what Splinter might have gone through as a single parent with four sons. One shot.


**Author's note: This is just a little fluff piece I wrote because I was having some terrible writer's block on one of my IRL projects. I figured I may as well share it on here. I hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, all related characters, and all derived works are the intellectual property of Nickelodeon, Viacom, Eastman, and Laird. This story is for entertainment purposes and not for monetary gain. In no way should this story be taken to be anything other than a fan-based expansion of and commentary on the source material. n00btmntfan is in no way associated with the makers of TMNT.**

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><p>What a day.<p>

Splinter sat down alone under the tree in the dojo, intending to meditate. However, his brain was so frazzled after the day's events that he simply allowed his mind to wander freely.

Raising four sons was absolutely exhausting. Even though they were finally old enough to be somewhat self-sufficient, they still drove Splinter to the edge of his sanity. He tried to remember if he had been such a typhoon at the age of eight. No, he thought, there was no way his mother and father would have stood for it. Granted, he and Shredder still managed to get into plenty of antics, but he didn't remember it ever being on a level of the sheer ridiculousness his boys were putting him through.

They had taken up a habit of _daring_ each other to do things, and the things had become increasingly ludicrous. Today, apparently, there was a dare that had involved some kind of experiment in the kitchen – the kitchen that Splinter had _just cleaned_ – that left scorch marks and pieces of some unidentifiable substance glued to the ceiling. They had also decided to play 'William Tell,' which would have been fine except that they used real arrows and that Donatello and Leonardo were still not the best of shots. Michelangelo's head had been grazed by Leonardo's arrow. Raphael had been quick enough to duck, which was fortunate – judging by the arrow's location in the wall, it would have killed him if he hadn't. On top of this ridiculous daring business, they had discovered America's national pastime and decided to start playing it _in the lair._ It might not have been so terrible if they had owned an actual baseball instead of the large rock that Raphael had brilliantly suggested as a substitute, or if they hadn't decided to use their wooden training weapons as bats. It had taken Splinter a full half-hour just to get all of the splinters out of Michelangelo's hand, while having to endure Donatello's stale wit about how 'hilarious' is was that _Master Splinter_ was removing _splinters. _

And all of this was just _today._ Splinter's mother and father would have killed him for this kind of behavior. _Am I really that terrible of a parent?_ Splinter wondered, as he unsuccessfully tried to center himself. How had his mother and father managed to maintain discipline?

His mother _and_ father. They had not done it alone – they had help from each other. Not to mention some of Splinter's much older cousins who watched after him. Not to mention his teachers at school, not to mention the subtle social cues that he picked up on from those around him.

Even all of those other things were nothing compared to the guidance and discipline of his parents. He tried not to think about the fact that the Shredder had killed them in their sleep; he brushed the mental image away and thought back to a happier time. His father – his sensei – had always been a source of guidance and wisdom. His father was, of course, a little on the permissive side; much of Splinter's good behavior was on account of his mother.

_Okāsan._ Splinter had loved his mother dearly. She had always managed to be harshly disciplinarian and sweet and comforting at the same time. Perhaps, if he hadn't been trying to raise four boys alone, they would have been better-behaved. He was keenly aware that he, like his father, was too permissive. Sometimes, though, permissiveness was the only thing that brought him any peace. If only he still had a partner, someone the boys could call mother _…_

If only he still had Tang Shen.

When Splinter had found out that Tang Shen was pregnant, he had started occasionally calling her _Kāsan_ as well. It was a habit that only became more pervasive once Miwa had been born.

He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the sweetest, most beautiful thing he could. He had his old family with him, together with his new family. Of course, he could not imagine having his sons _and_ being human, but Tang Shen certainly would not care that Splinter had turned into a rat. She had never really cared about appearances anyway. As partners, he and Shen would help their five children reach their fullest potential. She would be so proud of their sons. He smiled as he imagined his four sons playing with their older sister. He imagined Miwa training to be a kunoichi alongside his sons. He imagined falling asleep to the sound of Shen's soft breathing, imagined the warmth and softness of her body next to his.

When he opened his eyes, he sighed. He looked across the room to where the portrait of his old family sat on its shelf. From this angle, he couldn't see the picture.

That was probably for the best. Acceptance was the key to peace; he needed to, once again, accept that his old family was gone forever. He needed to accept that he struggled to discipline his sons. He needed to accept this and let it go. Finally, he reined in his thoughts and centered himself, then slipped into a deep, peaceful trance.

After he had meditated long enough to regain his sanity, he glanced at the skylight above. It was well after dark, and since he had put his sons to bed before he came in here, he decided that it was probably time for him to get some sleep as well. He turned out the light, walked over to his room, slid the partition shut, and lay down on his mat.

He was just drifting off when he heard the sound of hushed voices coming from the dojo.

"I can't believe you're actually gonna do it," Michelangelo whispered. "You know we're not supposed to touch it."

"Go ahead," Leo said. "Back down and hide in your shell, if you're scared."

"I'm not scared," Raph hissed.

"You should be," Donatello said, in his best spooky voice. "If Sensei finds out you've been messing around with his stuff, he's gonna pummel you."

"Raph can't back down from a _dare,_ Donnie," Leo said. "Or he proves that he's a scaredy-shell."

Splinter groaned inwardly. _This again._ What could they be up to this time?

"I dunno, Leo, it's a pretty dangerous dare. I mean, one time I accidentally knocked the picture over and he yelled at me."

Splinter couldn't keep himself from smirking. Somehow, they considered his ire to be as deadly as arrows and exploding kitchen wares. Michelangelo was talking about Splinter's family portrait – and Splinter had yelled at Michelangelo for being clumsy, not specifically over the portrait. It was true that he did not want them to break it – it was one of his dearest possessions. Perhaps he had been a bit harsh with them in the past, but only because they were so destructive. He had only forbidden them from touching it because he was sure that they would break it.

"Yeah, Splinter _loves_ that picture. Probably more than he loves you, Raph."

Splinter's heart sank. Donatello was likely only goading Raphael, but was there a chance that they actually thought that?

"Yeah, if you mess with it, you'll probably be grounded forever," Leo said. "Why haven't you picked it up yet? Are you too _scaaared_?"

Yes, it was almost definitely goading.

"I'm not scared of anything."

"Then why don't you pick it up? He's probably asleep anyway, scaredy-shell."

An impish idea occurred to Splinter. He silently rose from his mat and decided to give his sons the terrifying experience that they all assumed they were in for.

"Shut up, Leo. Here goes…"

All three of the others gasped. Raphael must have picked the portrait up.

That was Splinter's cue.

He burst out of his room, roaring in exaggerated fake rage. _"Who touched it?" _

All four of his sons screamed like they were being murdered. Michelangelo disappeared inside his shell. Raphael dropped the portrait and ran, screaming, for the door. Donatello and Leonardo had frozen in horror.

Splinter could not control his laughter. It was seldom that anything actually made him laugh beyond a simple chuckle, but the sheer terror on their faces was so comical – and so _deserved_ – that he could not help himself.

Leonardo and Donatello relaxed, but only slightly. Raphael stopped running and turned around, his face a mixture of shock and anger. "Not funny, Sensei!"

Splinter shook his head and went to pick up his family portrait from the floor. It was, of course, undamaged. Since he planned to keep it in his dojo anyway, he had purchased a resilient frame for it all those years ago. When he saw the picture, however, his mood became somber.

They needed to understand. They needed to understand that it was not the picture he loved, but the woman and baby in it. He had tried to explain it to them when they were younger, but apparently it had fallen on deaf ears. Now, perhaps, they would be old enough to understand. "Come here, my sons."

"Hai, Sensei," they chorused, their voices filled with dread. Kneeling, they lined up on the floor in front of him.

He considered them for a moment. He needed to de-mystify the picture for them, or they would never truly understand his attachment to it. "Raphael?"

Raphael cringed. "Hai, Sensei?"

"Please take this." Splinter handed the portrait to him. "Take a look at it, and touch it all you want. Then pass it to your brothers, please."

Utterly bewildered, Raphael took the portrait. His eyes skimmed over the picture on the front, then he turned it over and examined the back. He passed it to Leonardo, who did the same, then passed it on to Donatello.

After Michelangelo had finished looking at it, Splinter took it and held it up so that they could still see it. "Do you know why I have asked you not to touch this?"

Michelangelo shoved a hand into the air. "'Cause you don't want us to break it."

"Very good. Why is it that I do not wish for this to be broken?"

"It's special," Donatello said.

"Indeed. What makes it special?"

The boys hesitated and exchanged glances with each other. "Um," Raphael ventured, "'cause… it came from Japan?"

"Not quite," Splinter said. "Who is in this picture?"

"That's you, Sensei," Leonardo said. "And your wife and daughter."

"Is it special 'cause you wanna remember what you used to look like?" Michelangelo piped.

"No…"

"Is it because of them?" Donatello asked, pointing at Tang Shen and Miwa.

"Yes. Why do you suppose they make this portrait so special to me?"

"So you can remember them?"

"Exactly."

"You musta loved 'em, huh, Sensei?" Michelangelo said.

"Very much so."

"Why did they leave?"

"They didn't leave, shell-brain," Donnie hissed. "They died, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Sensei."

"That is quite all right, Michelangelo." Splinter put the portrait back on the shelf. He looked down at his sons, who all seemed rather somber after having been reminded of why they had never met the woman and baby in the portrait. "I have a new rule: you may pick up this picture any time you like, as long as you put it back immediately and promise me you will not break it."

"We promise!" all four of them chorused at once.

"Now, it is time for bed."

The boys stood up, but instead of leaving, they all looked over at the shelf where the picture was. "Sensei, if you loved them so much, how come you never talk about them?" Donatello asked. Suddenly, all four of the boys were staring at Splinter, their wide shiny eyes begging him for an answer.

Splinter sighed. "I do talk about them. You know their names."

"Yeah, but that's it," Leonardo said. "You tell us all kinds of stories about Japan, but not about them."

"Yeah, how did you meet Tang Shen?" Michelangelo asked.

"I do not…"

"…want to talk about it – exactly!" Raphael said. "See, you never talk about them. Why not?"

Splinter realized that he had said that to them on multiple occasions when they pressed him with questions about his life in Japan. He had given them only the barest minimum of information.

It was simply too painful to do more.

How could he make them understand? He had tried once or twice before, and every time they had countered with an infinite amount of _whys. _ As he looked at his sons, he noticed the place on Michelangelo's head where Leonardo's arrow had grazed it. "Leonardo, how did you feel when you saw that you had hurt Michelangelo?"

"Really bad," Leonardo answered, hanging his head. "I was…I thought I'd really hurt him."

"Donatello, how did you feel when you saw what would have happened to Raphael if he had not dodged in time?"

"Scared," Donatello said sheepishly.

"Now, I would like for both of you to imagine what would have happened if you had _killed _your brothers."

Leonardo and Donatello squirmed.

"What about you two?" Splinter turned to Michelangelo and Raphael. "What if it had been the other way around? What if your brothers were dead? How would you feel?"

"Sad," Michelangelo squeaked.

Raphael simply looked nauseous.

"What if somebody came and killed all of us except for one of you? What if you were all alone?"

"I don't wanna talk about this anymore!" Michelangelo cried, tears running down his face.

"Why? Why don't you want to talk about your brothers being dead?"

Raphael protectively jumped in front of Michelangelo. "Stop it, Sensei!"

"Why?"

"It's too sad!" Leonardo said.

Splinter said nothing. He simply watched as painful realization swept across his sons' faces. Michelangelo's lip quivered and tears streamed from his wide eyes. Raphael looked angry, but more like he was angry with himself. Donatello seemed both embarrassed – as if he was thinking he should have figured this out on his own – and moments away from tears. Leonardo's face was a mixture of guilt and sadness.

Splinter mentally chastised himself. He had been too harsh. He should not have tried to explain it to them, or if he had, he should have chosen some other way. He had wanted to make them _see,_ and they did now. He should have tried to maintain their blissful innocence, allowed them to go on seeing the world as a happy, beautiful place…

The next thing Splinter knew, all four of his sons were swarming him with hugs.

"I'm sorry." Raphael hugged Splinter tightly.

Donatello shook his head. "We didn't realize..."

Leonardo looked up into Splinter's face. "Yeah, we won't ask any more questions about them."

"Don't be sad, Sensei!" Michelangelo said, his voice breaking with emotion. "We're still here!"

Splinter dropped to his knees and pulled all of his sons into one huge embrace. "As long as I have you, my sons, I will always be happy."

"You really mean that?" Leonardo asked.

Splinter drew back and looked at the four faces that were so dear to him. The world _was_ a happy, beautiful place as long as one knew where to look. If he could, he would teach his sons to see that beauty and joy all around them.

"Yes," Splinter said. "Just as darkness always gives way to light, sadness will always give way to joy." His sons' faces brightened, and they dove in for one more family hug. "Now, you all must go to bed."

"Awww," Michelangelo groaned, "do we _have _to?"

"Why, yes. I _dare_ you four to go to bed. If you do not, you prove that you are all – what was it – 'scaredy-shells.'"

"That's not how it works!" Raphael said. "Dares are supposed to be for something dangerous!"

Splinter put on his most intimidating scowl. "In that case, I dare you _not_ to go to bed."

Donatello made a high-pitched sound that sounded vaguely like '_meep_.'

"On second thought…maybe we should go with the first dare?" Leonardo said.

The other three turtles nodded vigorously and then they all hastened from the dojo with cries of "Good night."

Smiling, Splinter shook his head. He went back into his room, not even pausing to look at his old family portrait. The past would always be there; his present was what mattered. As he lay down, he found himself thinking that it was past time he took a nice photograph of his four boys. It would not, of course, be his most valuable possession.

No, his most valuable possession would be every moment of time he had with his sons.

His parenting skills might be shaky, but his love for them was solid. Nothing else mattered. Even if they were an unstoppable force of chaos, their antics would be no match for the immovable object of his love for them.


End file.
